Page 14 of F*ck Marriage

Loren makes the toast: “To the best damn editor and blogger that ever was,” she says, raising her glass. “Welcome back!”

There are cheers ofHear! Hear!and then everyone’s tossing back their early morning bubbly. I notice that Pearl has only pretended to sip hers. Her eyes are on the floor near Woods’ shoes. Alert and hard as graphite, they follow him when he walks toward me. He’s opening his mouth to say something when Satcher steps in front of him, blocking his direct route.

“You’ve been coming into the office a lot. I thought the plan was to back out slowly.”

“I didn’t know I needed to ask permission to come into my office,” Woods replies.

There’s something about their exchange that is off. Normally, Woods and Satcher keep up a steady stream of banter; their relationship hinges on their shared sense of humor. But Satcher’s shoulders are tense and Woods’ face is stormy. They both look like they are about to explode. Everyone is either watching them or looking away uncomfortably.

“Do you know the best thing to do in a situation like this?” I ask. Now I’m the center of attention, or at least I should say the center of a tense, ticking silence. “Whip out your dicks and measure…”

There’s a pause and then the laughter erupts. The new people look relieved (the new boss isn’t so bad) and the old people raise their empty glasses grinning like it’s good to have me back. Tension is broken. Even Satcher is smiling and Woods is looking at me with a sort of endearing expectancy. He’s used to my sense of humor; eight years in a relationship will do that. Everyone dissipates after that, plastic flutes hitting the trash, and the common room emptying out as people make their way to their desks. Loren pats me on the shoulder as she leaves, a smug smile on her face.

“You’ve been sorely missed. Welcome back.”

I grin back at her, feeling a sense of belonging. Yes, it’s good to be back. This is my stride, this is what I’ve missed. And that’s when it hits me: it’s not just a man I came back for. I want it all ... every last thing.

After my first day back, Woods initially comes into the office every other day, but by the end of the second week he’s there from nine-to-five like the rest of us. I deduct that he’s either there to keep an eye on me or Pearl. Aside from the hard looks we give each other when we cross paths in the office, Pearl and I give each other a wide berth. If she’s noticed that Woods is in the office more she doesn’t let on; though, every time he comes into my office for anything, she follows within a few minutes, finding some reason or another to drag him away. It was like this before, I think, when we were married. I have memories of Pearl always needing to pull him away for this or that.

“So obvious,” I say to Loren after Pearl interrupts Woods and me to tell him her printer is jammed. A jammed printer, an emergency at their apartment, trouble with their wedding venue—and all in one week. Her creativity at making up issues to get him away from me is impressive.

“You should schedule a lunch with just the two of you to see what she comes up with to get him out of it,” Loren suggests.

I laugh, but the truth is that spending any time with Woods affects me deeply. Being around him has the opposite effect that it used to. Where his presence used to energize me, it now makes me feel drained and tired. I tell Loren this and she nods like she understands.

“It’s because you never got closure,” she says. “The fighting it out. The trying one last time. The heartbreaking honesty—those are all things you need to experience to move on.”

She’s right, but lack of closure is hardly Woods’ fault. I left town without a fight.

“There’s still hurt,” Loren says.

“No,” I argue. “It’s been years. I’m over it.”

“Sure.” She shrugs, like she doesn’t want to argue. “You know yourself.” She doesn’t believe me. I don’t believe me either.

Sometimes I think I am over Woods. Sometimes when I am really honest with myself, I can acknowledge that the person who knows me best in this world isn’t my mother or father—they hardly know me at all, or my friends who only get to see the best side of me, but Woods. Woods, who I spent eight years with. He saw me from every emotionally unflattering angle, in every bare moment of honesty and ... without my makeup. The fact that no one knows me as well as my ex-husband, who left me for another woman, is both devastating and frightening like I’m not worthy of being known fully. There were no warning signs, no moment when I knew our bond frayed and severed, no months of impending doom. I was blindsided.

In early September I interview candidates to fill Marie’s position. Marie, who is in her last month of pregnancy, and who looks like she’s uncomfortable every minute of every day, sits in on the interviews. I gauge her facial expressions to see how much she likes each applicant. I learn that when she frowns she’s doubting their experience, and when she smiles she’s already written them off. We interview a younger woman named Zoe, who has long red hair and comes in wearing a velvet head wrap. Marie compliments the color, a bright cobalt blue. It’s the first time I’ve heard her compliment an applicant, and halfway through the interview she interrupts my questions to ask her own. When Zoe leaves, Marie informs me that she’s the one.The one!Like we’re marrying her. I agree, however. Satcher, who meets her briefly in the hall outside his office, seems to like her as well.

It’s not until Marie has had her last day and is sent off on permanent maternity leave, that I realize I’ve been conned. Zoe has moved into her cubicle, unpacked her matching marble pencil holder and stapler. We welcome her with a Champagne toast, doughnuts, and a name plaque for her desk. All is well until I’m walking home from work one evening. I’m in the best of moods. Since I’ve been back at Rhubarb readership has grown by twenty percent, I’ve hired two new employees, and approached Satcher with a plan for growth and expansion. I’m going over what I’m going to speak about in the next staff meeting when I spot Zoe sitting in a popular bar up the street. I pause on the sidewalk wondering if I should go in and say hi, maybe have a drink, when I see Pearl walk toward her from the rear of the bar. Their greeting is familiar: Zoe jumps up, wrapping her arms around Pearl’s neck in a hug, and I realize that they’re celebrating. Because they know each other. I wonder if they’re old college buddies, and if Pearl was the one who encouraged her to apply for the job. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach for the rest of the walk home.

When I get back to the apartment I toss my keys on the counter and pull out my phone. It rings three times before Marie’s brusque “Hello” sounds in my ear.

“Marie, it’s Wendy,” I say. There’s a pause before her voice comes back, this time softer ... more cautious.

“Hi,” she says. “What can I help you with?”

“Did you know that Pearl and Zoe know each other?”

She sighs. “Yes.”

“So you were in on their plan?”

“Look, I have to go. What happens at Rhubarb isn’t my concern anymore.”

I laugh. “In a few years, when you want to go back to work because you’re sick of being a stay-at-home mom, it’ll be your concern. Don’t forget, I’m the one who’ll have to give you a reference.”

She’s quiet and I think she’s hung up when she says, “They grew up together. Pearl didn’t think you’d hire her if you knew…”

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